


forget me not

by youareoldfatherwilliam



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 16:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18742342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youareoldfatherwilliam/pseuds/youareoldfatherwilliam
Summary: Bucky's lost in his head a bit, but Steve always brings him out of it.





	forget me not

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon compliant, right up until the end of WS, at which point I veered off into the land of fluff and promptly chose to ignore everything else. Anyways, disclaimer! I own nothing. 
> 
> Also, I kind of suck at writing dialogue. You have been warned.

Bucky paced around his room and ran fingers through his hair, in what had become a vicious cycle that morning.

  
It had been ten months. Ten months since he’d willingly surrendered to the remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D; to the Avengers.

  
To Steve.

  
It was ironic. Even with his scattered, broken memory, that day was one of the few in modern times that stood out clearly to him. He remembered hearing the Avengers battle, feeling his feet drawn towards the very thing he’d promised himself he wouldn’t go near. He remembered sitting on the rooftop of a building across from the archer, Clint, and peering through the scope of his sniper rifle at the battle raging. He remembered the unwashed, ratty clothing he’d been wearing, the way his metal arm had been backfiring even as he kept his right hand firmly on the trigger. Most of all, he remembered the shock of golden hair that had been whirling around the battlefield, the man it belonged to knocking out robots as though it was his calling.

  
He remembered the first thing he’d thought was that the idiot wasn’t even wearing a helmet.

  
He remembered seeing the shock of bright red that had suddenly appeared on the golden haired man’s chest, brilliant and dangerous and contrasting his golden hair. Steve, his brain had supplied, the name that haunted his memories even when he couldn’t remember his own name.

  
He remembered bursting into action without thought, how he’d squeezed the trigger repeatedly, instantly felling the seven robots that were advancing on the fallen Captain. He remembered the easy motion, the repeated exhaling and squeezing of the trigger, how he’d taken out at least 20 of the enemy before the Avengers even noticed. Except for the Widow, Natalia, who’d spotted him almost as soon as he’d fired the first shot. He remembered no longer caring if they took him in and arrested him, gave him the death sentence; only that he needed to protect the golden-haired man.

  
It was a mantra that had been programmed into him, that ran deep through his bones and sang in his veins long before he’d become the monster, the machine.

  
He remembered that he hadn’t even known that much about the man at that point; it had been a year since the fall of HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D; a year on the run, being hunted, and still the only thing he knew that was certain was Steve.

He remembered the winding down of the battle, how the Widow had appeared behind him out of nowhere, guns raised, how the god had landed on the roof with a bang, hammer pointed at him. The Iron Man had followed suit, making some droll commentary even as he pointed his hands at Bucky, playing some obnoxiously loud music.

Most of all, he remembered Steve.

Steve, who had limped out onto the roof of the building, that shock of red still staining his chest and growing ever larger, but who’d refused to be taken to the hospital. Steve, who was being held up by the winged man, staring at him as though he were a ghost, and the most beautiful thing that he’d ever seen. Steve, who’d stepped towards him, barely, and uttered the words that penetrated the fragile air. “Buck?”

He’d swallowed, before fear over took him at the sight of that horrible, horrible red spreading over the other’s chest. “Go to the hospital, punk. I didn’t save your ass so you could die on me now”.

Everything after that was a blur; he’d put down his weapons, been handcuffed, and transported to Stark Tower for rehabilitation. He’d been interrogated, jailed for a month, had his metal arm removed and then replaced, and made to talk to every psychologist in the state of New York.

Now, ten months later, he’d been promoted to being on house arrest in Stark Tower, confined to the floor that he and Steve shared, unless accompanied by at least one other Avenger. It wasn’t bad, he mused. The Avengers were slowly growing more comfortable with him, and he with them. There were good days, when he could socialize to a degree and sit with them in the common area, and get through a movie night on the television before needing to retreat to his floor. He could spar with Widow or the archer in the gym; she would arch a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him before bursting into a stream of rapid-fire Russian. He found it comforting; though not his first language, it helped to ground him, integrating him with his life now. He’d trained her well. He was beginning to remember more of his memories, as they came back slowly. There were bad days, where he couldn’t talk to anyone, sorting through the fragmented memories in his head, trying to repress the urge to arm himself, to escape, to kill. He had nightmares often, when he slept, waking up screaming in the night, needing Steve or Sam to talk him down.

Then, there were days like this, where he was neither good nor bad; simply in a state of existence, where he could get so lost in the memories that he forgot where he was, sometimes unable to tell what was real and what was imagined.

Yesterday had returned scores of memories, of feelings never truly forgotten. Which was why, after his self-imposed exile in his room last night during dinner, he hadn’t spoken to anyone at all.

He remembered it perfectly. The slide of soft pink lips against his own, hands too large for the body they belonged to that roamed all over him and under his shirt. He remembered catching them by the wrists, shivering at how cold they were even as the fingers tweaked his nipples. He remembered the moans that Steve had made, the tiny gasps that came from the smaller man’s frame as Bucky had kissed him for all he was worth on their tiny cot in their apartment. He remembered being pinned to the bed by a body much smaller and frailer than his, but still feeling in awe at the power that emanated from those fragile limbs.

He glanced at the clock. The harsh digital lights read 8:15 am, and he resisted the urge to throw a knife at it. He hadn’t slept all night, and it seemed like he’d been pacing forever, trying to sort out the memory that had come crashing down on him.

Had he and Steve been in love? He knew he’d always loved Steve back then; Steve, who’d shone like a beacon of light amongst the shitty life they’d had. He remembered the fear, the need to hide his feelings. Surely he’d never have acted on them. Now though, he found himself doubting if it were a real memory, or simply an imagined trick of his brain.

His Swiss-cheese, messed up brain.

Now that he was back to himself, mostly, he remembered easily his feelings for Steve, and with those, came the realization that after all these years, that little punk from Brooklyn was still the center of his world.

He growled, and lay down on the too-soft bed. Nothing made sense anymore. In spite of himself, he pulled the covers over his head and tried to fall back asleep, fingers rubbing gently over the sheath of the knife he’d hidden under the pillow. He felt himself beginning to drop off to unconsciousness.

A knock on the door came, startling him out of his slumber. His fingers tightened reflexively on the knife before he reminded himself of where he was. He glanced down at himself, in his boxer briefs and fuzzy red socks, to the exposed scars on his chest and the metal arm. Growling, he shoved the knife away and reached to the side of the bed, grabbing the black hoodie that lay on the floor. “Come in!”

The door tentatively opened to reveal Steve, and he suddenly felt more self-conscious and hastened to throw the hoodie on. A glance at the clock revealed it to be 9:27. Steve pushed into the room, a sunny smile on his face, and Bucky swallowed to himself, trying to keep the feelings at bay. The other man seemed to be carrying a tray. “Morning, Buck”.

He gave a noncommittal grunt, but moved over and patted the spot on the bed across from him. Steve seemed grateful for the peace offering, and sat down immediately, taking care not to spill his tray.

“I, uh, just wanted to make sure you were okay, after whatever happened last night, when you ran out and slammed the door to your room. So, I brought you breakfast”.

He snorted, and rolled his eyes. “I’m all right, Steve. Just memories”.

“You want to talk about them?”

He was about to shake his head, when something on the tray caught his eye. His breath caught, and he reached out a hand. In the corner of the tray sat a small glass vase, and it was stuffed full of tiny, blue blossoms. They were brilliant and vivid, the same shade as the blue of Steve’s eyes, and he gently brushed his metal fingers across the petals before the ugliness of his hand caught him, and he drew it away. Another fragmented memory hit; the same, too-large hands, holding little bouquets of the blue blossoms, being surrounded by them on a hot summer’s day, trailing a blossom over paper-thin ribs before kissing the path it blazed. His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears. “What- what are these?”

The other man shifted on the bed, a flush coming over those cheeks, and he swallowed the urge to bury his face in Steve’s neck. “They’re forget-me-nots, Buck. They used to be your favourite , and I just thought you might like them. Bruce, he has a rooftop garden filled with flowers, I got them from him. Plus, they looked real pretty, next to the fruit. I brought you blueberries. You loved blue, back then”.

“Cuz it was the color of your eyes, Stevie”. The words hung in the silence between them, and Bucky swallowed, not knowing where the words had come from but feeling their truth, down to his bones. He avoided Steve’s gaze and leaned his head closer to the blossoms, keeping his metal arm close to them but refusing to touch them. Eventually, Steve spoke, but his voice sounded almost broken, a choked noise bubbling out of his throat.

“Yeah, Buck, you used to say that to me, a lot”.

“Were we lovers?”

The words tumbled out of him, unbidden, but as soon as he’d spoken them, he knew the truth before Steve looked back up at him, voice shaky. “Yeah, we were, Bucky”.

His silence seemed to discourage Steve, who looked down before reaching out and taking his metal hand. He started at the contact, still not quite comfortable with such gentle touches, but Steve held on.

“It’s okay, though, Buck, because I don’t want you to be the guy you were then. I’m happy with the you that you are now, and I want him in my life no matter how I can have him. First and foremost, I want to be your friend, and I want you to know that I never expect anything from you in regards to our old life. I loved you then, and I love you now, all of you, and I can’t ever lose you again, Buck…”

He silenced the other man’s ramblings by pulling his metal hand up close to his lips, bringing Steve’s hand with it. With his other hand, he reached out and picked up one of the blue blossoms, inspecting it. “I loved you then, and I love you now. You’re the only constant thing I can remember, even when I didn’t know me. You’re the one who’s believed in me, even when I had no faith in me, and you’re the one who still believes in me, even when I never feel I deserve it”. He touched his lips to the soft flesh of Steve’s hand, feeling the tremble that went through the other man. He placed the tiny blue blossom in his Steve’s’ hand, cradling both of them in the metal palm. “I may have forgotten a lot of things, but the one thing I remember is that I will always love you”.

He shook his head, trying to remove the flutters that the speech had caused in him. Steve’s voice was choked, when it came out again. “You’re a jerk, you know that?”

He leaned in closer, allowing Steve to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And you’re still a stubborn ass punk from Brooklyn who’s always getting himself into trouble”.

Steve moved the tray and the little blue blossoms to the bedside table and moved so that their thighs were touching on the bed. “You want me to stay here with you, for a while? I’m supposed to train with Nat, but that can wait a while”.

“What about breakfast?”

“It can wait”.

He lay back down and felt Steve curl around him, both unfamiliar and all-too the same, feeling the warm breath ghost the back of his neck as he closed his eyes and felt Steve murmur “I love you” into the non-existent space between them.

For the first time in seventy odd years, he felt as though he was home.

**Author's Note:**

> This is honestly just a tiny drabble I've had lying around on my laptop for ages, and well, I finally got the courage to post it! I don't even know if anyone will read this, but please be gentle. I'm much better at reading than writing, all mistakes are mine, and I apologize if anyone seemed out of character; as stated prior, I'm not really following canon, here, so the characters themselves might also act a little odd. This was mostly self-indulgent.


End file.
